


Tactile

by DeVereWinterton



Series: Miss Fisher's Year of Quotes 2018 [4]
Category: Miss Fisher's Murder Mysteries
Genre: April - Freeform, F/M, MFMM Year of Quotes, Tactile, journeys, non-established relationship, william shakespeare - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-15
Updated: 2018-04-15
Packaged: 2019-04-23 05:22:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,475
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14325522
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DeVereWinterton/pseuds/DeVereWinterton
Summary: 'Mother always taught us we mustn’t touch what isn’t ours, and thus far, I haven’t.'





	Tactile

**Author's Note:**

> I’ve been reading quite a bit, and working quite a lot, so there has been little time to write. I managed to squeeze this one out for the MFMM Year of Quotes challenge for April: Journeys. Inspired by [William Shakespeare’s Sonnet 27](http://nfs.sparknotes.com/sonnets/sonnet_27.html%20), a brilliant read. Jack’s POV. Other than that, I am not sure what this is (help me).

_Weary with toil, I haste me to my bed,_  
_The dear repose for limbs with travail tired;_  
_But then begins a journey in my head_  
_To work my mind, when body’s work’s expired._  
_For then my thoughts, from far where I abide,_  
_Intend a zealous pilgrimage to thee,_  
_And keep my drooping eyelids open wide,_  
_Looking on darkness which the blind do see._  
_Save that my soul’s imaginary sight_  
_Presents thy shadow to my sightless view,_  
_Which, like a jewel hung in ghastly night,_  
_Makes black night beauteous, and her old face new._  
_Lo thus by day my limbs, by night my mind,_  
_For thee, and for myself, no quiet find._

William Shakespeare – Sonnet 27

 

Mother always taught us we mustn’t touch what isn’t ours, and thus far, I haven’t. I have reached out to you in spirit, but never in the carnal physicality of the flesh, and only when the necessity of the situation called for it. My touches are always deliberate and carefully considered, because I cannot afford – nor allow – for my thoughts and lurid imaginings to lead me astray. It is a dangerous alley, a slippery slope; a path I have wandered down far too often as of late, a traitorous trail unwinding. No doubt the creamy texture of your porcelain skin underneath my roughened fingertips would be my utter undoing, a point of no return in the exploration of your loveliness, leaving me a mere ruin among castles.

You, on the other hand. You are so free, so unrestrained yet almost careful, but aware of touching me. It is a paradox I cannot quite grasp – and one I admire – a phenomenon unique to you. I often wonder if you realise the effect your fleeting – sometimes lingering – touches have on me?

How I come alive beneath your fingertips, how my heart stutters at the feel of your fingers directly upon my sensitized skin, or scorching me through my previously considered safe armour of fabric. How my world turns from black and white monotones into a vibrant range of exuberant colours at the touch of your hand, the way you interlace our fingers as we take this next step in our complex dance routine.

I think you do.

I think you long to draw me out, to elicit some sort of response – provoking me – and I love to tease your teases. To deny you whatever it is you seek to find, but only here, in this space between us; the kind of release we both desperately desire, although I remain unsure as to whether or not I will be able to overcome the enormity of such an endeavour.

For now, your portrayed frustration and smouldering looks at being denied your presumed treat are well worth the following scoff I consistently have to endure.

It is this game we play, and a game we play well, but I long for one of us to finally be victorious. Regardless of the outcome of the decisive match, I believe this would be to our mutual benefit, all the same.

Unfortunately, some of the rules to this game are still unclear to me, murky like an autumn drizzle. I like to play by the rules – perhaps this is my professional deformation seeping into my private life, or perhaps I am a Detective Inspector because of my personality traits. You, however, you like to challenge the rules, overstep borders and defy boundaries. You, the White Queen, continuously move in and out of my reach, and sometimes you will disappear off the chessboard altogether, no doubt playing different games with different pawns.

It irks me, yet it is not in my nature to simply admit defeat.

Contemplation is my stock and trade, and thus my next move, when it comes, is hardly ever spontaneous, but no less intense in its integrity or intent.

I like to think you like touching me. I crave your touch; I find myself inexplicably drawn to it, like a bear lured by the promise of sweet honey, like a bee drawn to your musky nectar. It gives me great pleasure; these soft brushes, these teasing strokes, the tantalizing pull. The knowledge that my presence near you is never a given, never self-evident to you; the knowing yet seemingly surprised smiles you bestow upon me fill my heart with joy, make my body hum pleasantly with unfulfilled arousal and cause the corners of my mouth to quirk upwards ever so slightly in an unvoiced reply. I do not claim to understand the intricate depths of your kindness of heart, nor why I should be deserving of it, but I can feel its intensity beating within my breast.

You touched my mind before you ever even touched my body.

With your coy, imploring gazes; equal parts admiration, frustration and seduction. Your non-too-subtle, and on occasion secretive perusals of my person. Deep green-grey eyes that peer up at me from beneath fluttering dark lashes. A wit as sharp as a knife and the cut of your raven-coloured hair, a keen intellect and an impressive intelligence to back it up. The self-confidence with which you move, the natural grace and poise you exude, the slight sway to your hips when you sashay into my office; it is enough to make a man swoon at your feet. I know for a fact that many have, indeed.

I will not, however, for I have grown careful throughout the years.

Cautious.

Closed-off, perhaps.

I almost forgot what it means to love someone. To be in love with someone, so much that it is sometimes hard to even see reason. To feel the steady beat of one’s heart against one’s chest, an irregular drum, incoherently rattling tissue and bone. To want to feel the beating of another heart, in tandem with one’s own, finding a regularity, a peace, when joined together. Chasing the elusive light in the dark.

I want to know the weight of your breasts when I mould them in my palms, cradling them. The softness of your shapely derrière as I hold onto your hips, steadily pushing into your yielding body from behind.

My legs tangle in the cold sheets of my bed as I twist and turn at the thought of your intimate touch, my skin fevered and damp. My toes curl involuntarily against the mattress, leg-muscles straining as my hand strays down towards the heat that has pooled in my groin, as I tug rhythmically, prolonging the self-imposed torture, punishing myself for objectifying you.

Always keeping me on my toes, you are. I am hyper-alert and hypersensitive to my surroundings, particularly when you’re around. I am forever on edge when I’m with you, but is isn’t an unpleasant experience. On the contrary; _you_ heighten my senses, but I must be careful, for you are wont to invade them entirely. Your alluring perfume, that mouth-watering, heady scent that lies underneath the extravagance and is uniquely your own, an addictive concoction to be sure. My mouth runs dry at the thought of drinking from your well.

Those subtle yet deceitfully innocent, lascivious curves; the enticing slope of your neck, the tight peaks of your breasts, the small of your back, the swell of your hips, the roundness of your wonderful arse. All of which I have noticed, but always pretend not to.

That sensuous mouth and that voice filled with unspoken promises, with its relentlessly seductive lilt.

The way you pronounce my common name as though it is the most delicious morsel you want to wrap your clever little tongue around. 

I can almost imagine–

I like to feel your heat beside mine, the weight and slight pressure of your body when you lean into me, whispering your keen observations into my ear, your tiny nose nudging my earlobe, your hand tightening on my elbow whenever you get excited.

I wonder if you long to bite that tiny fleshy expanse as much as I want you to. To sink your teeth into my skin, my body, my being, not unlike the way your soul, your spirit has somehow attached itself to mine, unwilling to let go.

Part pain, part pleasure.

Nothing but a soft sigh escapes my lips as my body constricts almost violently, gratification bursting forth from every cell as I close my eyes against the white light (to no avail), too sharp of a contrast against the darkness surrounding me. Gentle, almost sluggish waves roll over me until I am utterly debauched, depraved, demoralized.

Spent.

I must be insane, mad for wanting you and delirious from needing you.

But here, in this life, there is no rest for the wicked. We must carry on, persevere, for crime does not rest, and apparently, neither do we.

For you see, because of you, my body does not rest in the daytime and my mind finds no peace at night.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> This is somewhat different from what I usually write, so any kind of (constructive) criticism is always much appreciated <3


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